David asked for the microphone at our fortieth anniversary dinner, and for one brief, foolish second, I thought he was about to surprise me with something sweet.
He was about to surprise me. Just not with anything sweet at all.
I thought he was about to surprise me with something sweet.
We’d been together since college.
Forty years, three children, five grandchildren, and a house we’d painted twice and a garden we’d argued over every spring without ever actually changing the layout.
I still remembered the apartment we’d started in, the one with the radiator that banged like a drum all winter and the window that never quite closed.